Ever since Powerscourt’s return, he had been watched by the officers of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, concerned for his safety. Ferrante had recommended it to his friend the Commissioner. ‘You asked me to keep him safe,’ his telegram read. ‘I have. But he is not safe in England, I think. These people are very dangerous. Watch him if you can, Commissioner. Perugia grew very fond of Lord Francis.’
The great cables that held the ship to the shore had been cast off. An insistent hooter sounded above them. The dots left behind on the quay were still waving, waving at loved ones they might never see again, waving at friends departing, waving to the new world that would greet the boat at journey’s end. England was growing smaller as they gathered speed. On the deck above, the band struck up the overture to Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana, the great hit in London the winter before.
‘Lucy,’ said her husband, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘I am so glad you are here.’
He wanted to say something to bind her to his last investigation, something that would join them both together in his mind. There had been too many deaths. He had almost lost count by the end. Prince Eddy, he didn’t care about, one way or the other, he decided. Gresham has gone to meet Louisa. So beautiful, my Louisa. He must be happier now. He thought of Lord Lancaster, lying in the cold ground of Sandringham Woods, his life lost for wasted honour. He thought of Simon John Robinson at rest in the graveyard at Dorchester on Thames. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.
‘Lucy. I give you a motto. May it see us across the Atlantic. May it see us across the future. I love you very much, Lucy. Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’
‘Oh, Francis, what a beautiful thought. Let me give it back to you. For our future. You and I. Francis and Lucy. Lucy and Francis. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’